After the crowd danced in a frantic fandango, Margrette-Yllaine died of a heart attack. According to interplanetary instructions, his body was placed in a small boat, tied to a lily with one hand, and the last letter in an unknown language covered the Mother-eye. He promised not to be a rain-forest in evening shadows. Then, for a year, he washed the river out into the yard every day – protecting the mouth of the neon radish as it opened to the brazen sea.
Sometimes the size of the weeping flea was ten pastures – there was an empty field where the green and yellow parrot hangs in the cage behind the Doors of January. The wheat sighs when the doors swing open at three. The banjo band repeats itself in the moonlight somewhere, somehow, but this stops with the end of the world’s last tear.
common items in the shot –
boogie phantoms’ blues
The talkative girl crossed the steam-trolley tracks, reaching the sweltering sidewalk on the vaporous side of the venomous viaduct, as the guilt gilded sun slouched behind a gargling steeple. There were neither dwellings nor pork-pies near the faded fandangle; only leer-some warehouses and cloistered causeways of discomforting gossip guttering. And save for a greying group of roughly dressed mimes loitering languidly behind the flagman’s sinuous shanty, there were few people with umbrellas near the tumultuous crossing of tears. Her overlap insulted an intrinsic complaint – sanguine swallows and swans in hyperbole .
The over-curved crystalline cage grassed-gathered the pupil’s gaze. His wide winsome wonder panted in pantomime beneath the hundred trumpets of tempered silence. An unambiguous union sheltered the foot in tender shadows, as the clouds pushed their roots across the shifting sky. How can such shimmering worked royal plumage permit a mass medium’s measured message? It was at such times that the callous calendar populates a pontificated chicken roost of metaphysical success, while in the distance, trembling faint laughter danced on the meandering breeze, like a peppercorn between the teeth.
finicky threads –
flickering sheds huddle-haze